


The Hounds of the Burrow

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Brave and The Cunning [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Case Fic, HP universe- Sherlock characters, M/M, Potterlock, Rated for smut, Spoilers for BBC Sherlock through Hounds, Spoilers for the Harry Potter books, crossover fic, should be read after the rest of the series...definitely not a stand-alone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Well," Sherlock said, "don't just sit there. Pack your things!"</p><p>"Pack my…" John's eyes narrowed in confusion. "But…where are we going?"</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes and hopped up from the chair, rubbing his hands together excitedly. "Ottery St. Catchpole."</p><p>"You told Henry we weren't going," John said slowly, aware that he was stating the obvious.</p><p>"Of course we're going," Sherlock said brightly, dashing to his desk and rummaging through one of the drawers. "An unsolved murder, a werewolf, and a creepy old groundskeeper? I wouldn't miss that for the world!<br/>---</p><p>Tourism is on the decline at the Burrow, now a museum of sorts celebrating the lives of the Weasley family. Are the odd rumors a bid to truss up some new tourists, or are they genuine?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Knight in Tarnished Armor

**Author's Note:**

> Check out this hella amazing fan art of John and Sherlock outside the Burrow: http://moriarghty.tumblr.com/post/89781601791/click-here-for-full-size-this-was-inspired-by  
> A thousand blessings to moriarghty for being so exceptional and making me very very happy :):):)
> 
> I want to take a moment to thank everyone who's read these fics so far, and I'd just like you guys to know how much I appreciate all the feedback I've gotten. You guys are brilliant and the comments you leave mean more to me than I can properly express. Thanks for everything, guys.

"No," Sherlock Holmes said forcefully, tugging at his dark curls with twitching fingers. He was sitting (the wrong way, as per usual) on a fancy wingback chair in his study, his feet tapping an unsteady rhythm on the cushioned seat. Perched as he was on the top of the chair, John Watson almost expected him to overbalance, especially with all that manic energy flowing through him and making him practically vibrate inside his own skin…but, much like a cat, Sherlock's balance suffered no ill effect from his sour mood. If anything, it seemed to increase his agility, allowing him to assume more and more precarious positions the more his irritability grew.

John let out a weary sort of groan and dropped his head into his hands. "I'm not having a repeat of last year," he moaned, tugging at his own hair in kind. It was shaping up to be that sort of day, the kind that made him less interested in kissing his best friend and more interested in throttling him.

Every bit the fussy child, Sherlock stood up in his chair and wrapped his dressing gown tightly around him, stomping his foot against the cushion. "Do you think I relish the idea of yet another Christmas break spent with Mycroft and his pretentious friends?"

"Of course not," John sighed, standing as well and looking up at Sherlock placatingly. "Which is why I think a simple little case might be exactly the sort of thing you need. I know it's not terribly exciting, looking for a girl's lost rabbit, but she'll want Bluebell found before we head back to school, and I thought-"

"You thought! Well, there's your first mistake!" Sherlock leapt down and paced for a moment, then whirled to face John, his face contorted with a mix of annoyance and regret. "No, I don't mean that. But honestly, John! 'Oh, Holmes, I can't find Bluebell anywhere! Please, please, please, can't you help?'" He pulled a face that expressed exactly how he felt about _that_  schoolgirl's plea before dropping back down into his seat and groaning loudly. Then, with a sudden air of excitement, he leapt up and grasped John's shoulders. "Let's play Exploding Snap."

"Not a chance!" John cried, stepping back and shaking his head vehemently.

Sherlock scowled. "Why not?"

"Because," John shouted, outraged, "you've done something to the deck! Last time we played I nearly lost my fingers!"

"You healed," Sherlock snapped, spinning his hand carelessly and dropping back into his chair once more, his legs flung over one of the arms and his head hanging down towards the ground. "A Muggle game, then. Cluedo?"

"God, no. We're never playing that again."

Sherlock frowned at him, his face turning pink from the blood rushing to his head. "I liked Cluedo," he groused. His mouth straightened into something nearing a smile. "I won last time."

"Because you cheated!" John bellowed, losing his temper entirely. "It's a Muggle game! It's literally impossible for the victim to have been murdered by a troll."

"Improbable!" Sherlock replied hotly, sliding off the chair and climbing to his feet, his curls a wreck and his shirt askew. "Not impossible, John, improbable! Once one examines the facts-"

"Hoo, hoo," called Mrs. Hudson from the doorway, holding a tea tray and beaming at John. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything." Mrs. Hudson, the poor misguided woman, still held strong hopes that John and Sherlock would "sort things out". In fact, she had discreetly mentioned as much no less than eight times since John had arrived at the Holmes manor the night before.

"Mrs. Hudson! Do you mind-" Sherlock began, spinning to give her a proper telling off, but instead he stopped and looked at her querulously. "Who's here?"

"Oh, isn't it good, when he gets going?" Mrs. Hudson cooed, flashing a wink at John and making him redden. "Go on, Sherlock dear, tell us how you knew."

Sherlock made an incredulous face and waved impatiently at the tea tray. "Three cups; not exactly a difficult deduction, was it? Now who is it? A client?" He peeked around her to the open doorway, neatening his dressing gown. "Someone with a case, I hope, and not a stupid one like the horrendous excuse for work John brought me."

Setting the tea tray down on an end table, Mrs. Hudson tutted. "Now, now, be nice, Sherlock." She straightened and smoothed her hands down the front of her blouse with a contented sigh. "Oh, it's so wonderful having you, John. You really must visit more often."

Yanking at his hair again, Sherlock groaned, "Mrs. Hudson, for the third time,  _who is here_?"

"Oh, yes! Hmm." She considered for a moment. "I believe he said his name was Harry."

John and Sherlock exchanged looks. "Not the famous Harry?" John asked, disbelieving.

"Which one, dear? The prince? Or Potter?" Mrs. Hudson shook her head and waved her hands at them dismissively. "In either case, no, not him. Oh, goodness. I've forgotten it, now. Shall I just send him up, then?"

Because Sherlock looked positively murderous, John cleared his throat and stepped forward. "That would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you."

"Such a sweetheart," Mrs. Hudson sighed, looking meaningfully at Sherlock. "Wouldn't it just be splendid if John was around more often?" She sighed again, quite theatrically this time, and swayed out of the room as cheerfully as she'd come in.

"That woman," Sherlock began, but John held up a finger.

"You might make yourself presentable," he said, giving Sherlock a once-over with his eyebrow raised.

Sherlock looked down at himself. "What's wrong with this?" He rolled his eyes at the look John gave him, and snapped, "Fine."

When their guest finally entered the room, the pair looked as calm and collected as befitted a pair of teenage detectives, Sherlock trussed up in a suit jacket and John looking smart in a nice new jumper he'd bought with his summer savings. Unfortunately, Sherlock entirely ruined the effect by groaning, "Merlin's sake, not another lost rabbit, I hope."

Henry Knight, who John recognized as having been a Hufflepuff from the year above (and one of Molly's friends; he'd long suspected Henry fancied her, just a little), blinked at them. "Have I missed something?"

\---

After a brief interlude involving some frankly rude observations about Henry's love life and a short but heated reiteration of John's insistence that they take a case-  _any_ case- rather than lounging about in pyjamas and playing- or in Sherlock's case, cheating at- card games, they settled an understandably flummoxed young Knight down in the room's coziest chair, John fetched him a cup of tea, and Henry began his story.

Henry Knight's great-great-grandfather, also named Henry, purchased the Knight Bus enterprise -called Midnight Carriages, back then, the name it had held since being commissioned by the MoM in 1865- during the Muggle Second World War. At the time it was a floundering business, but Henry the eldest was a shrewd businessman and, at a time when air travel was a fearful undertaking and Muggles the world over were on high alert for peculiar behavior, he saw an opportunity to expand the small, barely known business into a Wizarding institution. In 1978, he sold the business for a bafflingly large sum of money. Since then, the Knights had lived quite comfortably in the popular Wizarding village of Ottery St. Catchpole.

Before the start of the Second Wizarding War, Henry's grandfather Michael went to school with Bill and Charlie Weasley, individuals he cited throughout his lifetime as heroes. After graduation, and a brief posting at the MoM as a record-keeper, Michael joined the war effort, and when the war was over he returned home with a new bride and a knee which never quite healed properly, where he joined the restoration efforts surrounding the Weasley's Burrow, returning the old ruins to their former glory and transforming the house into both museum and memorial. Michael loved the Burrow so much he bought it outright and performed much of the maintenance and upkeep himself. After his death, the Burrow passed on to Henry's father, James, who hired a somewhat curmudgeonly groundskeeper named Mr. Frankland. Mr. Frankland was the sole caretaker of the house now, still in residence in the attic bedroom, well-known in the community despite his homebody tendencies, and Henry thought of him almost as family.

"There is a point to this story, I assume," Sherlock said at this juncture, having already lost his jacket and undone his cuffs. He was sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands dragging down his face.

Henry shifted awkwardly. "Well, yes-"

"Then please, for the love of all the Wizards who ever were and ever will be, get on with it."

"I…yes, all right," Henry stammered. Continuing, but now with more nervous glances and unsure pauses, Henry told the story of his own birth and his mother's subsequent death during childbirth. Then, with obvious discomfort, he began the story that would prove to be his entire purpose for coming to Holmes manor at all: the story of his father's murder.

Henry was quite young at the time, but he seemed to remember the event with stunning clarity. His father had helped him dress and comb his hair, and then together they'd gone out onto the meadows surrounding the Burrow, digging through the tall grass for things lost during the various attacks and vandalisms that had befallen the Burrow near the end of the war, after it had been abandoned by the Weasleys. James, Henry stated sadly, had as much love for the Burrow as his father had before him, and he was dedicated to the task of complete restoration. "It was a very foggy morning," Henry said, his eyes growing distant and slightly glassy. "In fact, it was hardly morning at all, still dark enough that the crickets were singing, and…and with the fog…I could hardly see more than a few feet around me."

"Unreliable eyewitness testimony," Sherlock sighed under his breath. "Fantastic."

Not hearing him, Henry went on: "Father set me down in the grass, and I remember fussing over how wet it was, and asking again and again if we couldn't come back later, once the sun had come out and the grass had dried. But Father wouldn't listen, he kept walking onwards, leaving me behind…" He stopped again and looked at John and Sherlock as though he'd forgotten they were there. "I…I saw something," he said warily, like he'd come to this part of the story many times before and expected a poor reaction.

Sherlock straightened. "Yes?"

"Something…unusual." Henry's eyes went dim again, his gaze settling on a spot on the rug. "A pair of eyes, glowing red through the fog. I called out- my father turned to me-" Here he stopped again, looking up and blinking away tears. "The  _thing_  came through the fog, and it- it didn't see me, you understand. I ducked down into the grass. But my father…" He didn't finish, but he didn't need to, not really. John didn't need to be a genius to know what had happened next, and Sherlock…well, he  _was_  a genius, wasn't he?

"Describe it. The  _thing_  that killed your father," Sherlock requested, his tone as imperious as ever. John contemplated giving his arm a good whack, but settled on a concerned frown instead.

Henry shook his head slowly, his pale eyes going wide, but to John's surprise he did as Sherlock bade, however quietly. "Enormous. I've never seen its equal. It was…horrible, Holmes. Beyond description."

Sherlock let out a breath and stood, pacing the space in front of the fireplace. "Yes, fine, but  _try_  to describe it, won't you? Did it move on four feet or two?"

"Four," Henry said at once.

"Good," Sherlock said, nodding. He looked at John briefly and then flashed a phony smile at Henry. "You're doing well. Now, did the beast have scales? Fur? Feathers, perhaps?"

"Fur." Henry licked his lips and nodded. "Dark, matted fur."

With a little smile, Sherlock hummed. "And red eyes, you said. Allow me to guess: sharp, pointed teeth? Ferocious claws? Did the beast snarl and drool?"

"Don't make fun of me, Holmes," Henry huffed, standing up. His face had gone a delicate shade of pink. "I know what I saw, and I'm telling you the absolute truth."

"Yes, I imagine you are," Sherlock said, dropping back into his chair and crossing his legs. "What you saw, Henry, was a werewolf under the effect of a full moon and without his usual dosage of wolfsbane potion."

Henry shook his head. "No, no, I've done a great deal of research, and the  _thing_  I saw…that was no werewolf, I'm telling you." He paused and looked at John pleadingly. "There's a legend in Ottery St. Catchpole, of a hellhound who guards the Burrow. They say it feeds on purebloods. My father…my father was a good man, and no one in my family  _ever_  allied with You-Know-Who, but…but is it possible-?"

"Of course it isn't," Sherlock sniffed. "And even if it were, you're essentially asking me to investigate a case that's been cold as long as I've been alive. Why? Why now?"

Sitting back down, Henry looked at them both solemnly. "It was easier when I was at school. To forget, I mean. But now that I've gone back home…I can't look at that house, or those meadows, without remembering-" He winced a little, and shook his head. "I don't sleep. My appetite has disappeared. Holmes, please. No one else could convince me that I didn't see what I know I saw. But if  _you_  look into it…no matter what you find, I think I'll be able to put it past me. Please. You must help me."

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the armrest, inwardly debating. Then he looked up into Henry's eyes, and shook his head. "No. Now, if you just head back down to the foyer, Mrs. Hudson will see you out-"

"Sherlock!" John cried, at the same instant that Henry gasped, "No, please, you must-"

"I will not," Sherlock said simply, crossing his arms. "I apologize, Henry, but you haven't got a case. A werewolf killed your father and left town shortly thereafter, if he was wise. If you'd like my professional advice, I'll give it to you: move." He reached over to the tea tray and shook a bell, bellowing, "Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!"

Once Henry was gone- having cast long, pitiful looks at the pair of them the whole way to the door- John stared at Sherlock for fully a minute and a half, his foot shaking and his arms crossed. If Sherlock realized he was being glared at with such force, however, he gave no notice; he was seemingly lost in thought, his eyes darting and unfocused. Then he slapped his thighs and smiled at John charmingly. "Well," he said, "don't just sit there. Pack your things!"

"Pack my…" John's eyes narrowed in confusion. "But…where are we going?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and hopped up from the chair, rubbing his hands together excitedly. "Ottery St. Catchpole."

"You told Henry we weren't going," John said slowly, aware that he was stating the obvious.

"Of course we're going," Sherlock said brightly, dashing to his desk and rummaging through one of the drawers. "An unsolved murder, a werewolf, and a creepy old groundskeeper? I wouldn't miss that for the world!" He pulled a pair of ancient-looking spectacles out and examined them with a little frown. "They'll do," he said to himself, tucking them into his pocket. Then, to John, "Well, what are you waiting for? You  _are_  going, I assume. That rubbish they print in the Prophet doesn't write itself."

Despite himself, John grinned. "All right, but one question. Why'd you tell Henry we wouldn't take the case?"

It was Sherlock's turn to smile, though his was a touch more secretive than John's. "Didn't want him trying to tag along on our investigation, did we?"


	2. They Were The Footprints of a Gigantic Hound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back by popular demand. Sorry if it's a little rough, it's been awhile and I'm still getting back into the groove.

They took a Muggle train to Devon, at John’s insistence. He’d always enjoyed traveling at Christmas, the countryside glittering with frost, the train’s compartments warm and full of people delivering gifts to their faraway relatives. He expected Sherlock to be stroppy – this was true in most cases, but especially so whenever John tried to call the shots – but instead his friend seemed genuinely cheerful as they sipped warm tea and clouded the window with their breath.

 From Devon they Apparated to Ottery St. Catchpole, rather than taking the bus, and soon found themselves arm-in-arm near Stoatshead Hill, shivering at the sudden chill. John expected Sherlock to tug him straight towards the Burrow (they could see it from here, the haphazard structure seeming to almost sway in the winter wind) but again Sherlock surprised him, slipping his gloved hand into John’s and pulling him along instead towards the village.

Ottery St. Catchpole was the sort of place a guidebook might call “quaint”: small, with a charming downtown district surrounded by cute little cottages, all hung with Christmas lights. Sherlock pointed John towards an inn and told him to book a room, while he himself scarpered off towards a pub. That in itself was unusual, but what he found at the inn was even stranger.

 _BEWARE THE HOUND,_ read an old sandwich board in the bustling common room. Beneath that, a crude drawing of a hound’s head, ferocious teeth bared in a chalky snarl. John gestured to the sign as he checked in. “Doesn’t that put off guests?” he asked, although the din of the room appeared to give lie to his question.

“Not at all,” laughed the innkeep. “If anything, it draws ‘em in. People love a good ghost story.” He dropped his voice and leaned in closer as he passed John the room key. “Think it’s a bit of a joke meself, but if it keeps the till full…” He shrugged, grinning broadly. John thanked him, tucked the key away, and went off in search of Sherlock.

\--

He found him in the pub, laughing his head off with some Muggle boy from the village. “Think your mate’s gone a bit daft,” the boy said to John, by way of introduction.

“What? The idea of a werewolf is so farfetched, yet you earnestly believe a _hellhound_ is stalking the meadows outside of town?” Sherlock laughed again and took a long sip from his pint. “Forgive me if I don’t see the distinction.”

“Come off it, I told you.” The boy set his glass down and began to gesture adamantly. “I’ve seen that hound. Eh? With my own two eyes.”

“But not with a camera.”

“Aye, with a camera,” the boy insisted, pulling out his mobile and shoving it at Sherlock. John peered over his shoulder at the picture, but there wasn’t much to see. The photo was blurry and taken at night, in a haze of fog. There certainly was a dark shape, but beyond that…

“This could be a housecat for all I know,” Sherlock snarked.

The boy laughed again and snatched his phone back. “Give me that,” he pretended to huff, entirely too familiar for John’s liking. “Anyway, it’s like I said: I’m not the only one what’s seen it, am I? Besides, this town has always been a little…kooky, you know. I’ve heard all kinds of things. Men disappearing in thin air, flying objects – come on, don’t laugh, I’m not saying I believe it all. But my gran used to tell me stories about these twins, ginger boys from up the hill a ways. Said they’d come into the shop where she worked when she was a girl and do all sorts of little magic tricks she could never figure out, or tell her scary stories. One night, she said, one of the boys came to the shop and told her to hide, that something terrible was happening. She hadn’t heard anything on the news, but the boy looked in a bad way, so she listened to him. And sure enough, she said, that very night a bunch of men in strange outfits came to the village and did all manner of crazy things, things you’d never believe. You won’t hear anyone talk of it now.” The boy looked around the pub to make sure no one was listening. “But my gran wasn’t a liar. If something like that could happen here, I reckon a hellhound isn’t so far off the mark.”

“But a werewolf is?” Sherlock said again, smiling over his pint glass.

The boy rolled his eyes. “Oi, don’t start with that again.” He was flipping through his mobile, but he suddenly stopped and gave Sherlock a wide, victorious smile. “When have you ever heard of a werewolf leaving tracks like this?”

He passed the phone to Sherlock again, and again John looked over his shoulder. In the picture was a paw print pressed into the mud; beside it, a pound note. The paw print dwarfed the note. “Ah,” Sherlock said softly, all remnants of playful banter scrubbed from his features. “When, indeed.”

\---

 Having settled up at the pub and sorted their accommodations, at last Sherlock announced they would go the old Weasley home and have a look around.

They walked in companionable silence for awhile along the old dirt track that led out of town, until John couldn’t help himself any longer. “You were rather cozy with that lad from the village,” he said, his voice as off-hand as he could make it.

Sherlock, of course, wasn’t fooled. “Don’t be stupid, John. I was questioning a witness. I’ve learned that charm is more persuasive to Muggles than intimidation; as such, I employed a technique.”

“Oh, and you’ve learned that from all your time spent with Muggles, then?” John laughed.

“I learned it from you,” Sherlock said seriously. To John’s querulous look, he added, “You’re charming. You grew up around Muggles. It follows that you picked up this strategy of proper behavior from exposure. Ergo…”

John wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or offended or somewhere in between. He settled on dubious with a hint of amused and let his attention wander back to the walk. It was lovely country, all grassy and quiet, with a sea wind cutting down through the grass and making John pull his coat closer. Though the walk was uphill, the grade was gentle, and Sherlock didn’t seem in any particular hurry. It was nice, John thought, to be like this with Sherlock again. If he was honest with himself he was still smarting over that whole debacle with Irene Adler. It was bad enough that she’d stolen Sherlock’s heart, however briefly, but to know that they’d done _cases_ together, without even considering taking John along—

Well, that was over with. Irene was gone, presumably for good, and John was here now. Things could go on normally, couldn’t they? Sure, there was this great uncomfortable lump settled permanently in his throat now, but well, John was nothing if not British. He would take all of his messy, complicated feelings, and he would squash them down deep where even he could forget all about them. It was the sensible thing to do. Carry on, and all that.

They reached the Burrow almost unexpectedly, as lost as John had been in his own thoughts. The place seemed improperly named, or so John mentally opined as he and Sherlock stood looking up at it, dense fog settling around their legs. Rather than being small and underground, the Burrow was a tall, rickety looking structure, like multiple houses all stacked up and nailed together, with enough annexes and additions that John thought certainly someone could wander it for a century and never discover all of its secrets.

“Well?” Sherlock said, snapping John out of his reverie. “We won’t discover anything by lingering out here all day.” He grabbed John’s hand and pulled him towards the lumbering old house.

\---

The door was locked, the windows shuttered. A small sign announced “Sorry we’re CLOSED”, while another, stuck in the window, cheerily declared “Never mind the dog -- beware of owner.” Sighing, Sherlock tapped the doorbell, setting off the howling shrieks of a small chihuahua. John gritted his teeth. He really didn’t much care for lap dogs.

A woman answered the door, chihuahua cupped in her arms, barely stepping out of the shadows to peer warily at John and Sherlock in turn. “We’re closed,” she said, not too kindly, her mouth pulled into a small frown.

“Our apologies--” John began, as Sherlock charged: “I don’t see any hours posted. When will you open tomorrow?”

“We’re not,” the woman answered brusquely, pulling her dog closer. The dog’s teeth were bared in a miniature parody of the Hound’s snarl.

“I’m asking for your hours, not some vague dismissal--” Sherlock began, almost certainly headed into some sort of bull-headed tirade. He stopped, however, when the door widened, and the woman was gently pushed aside in favor of a white-haired man.

“Mr. Frankland, groundskeeper,” the man said, shaking Sherlock’s hand. “Can I help you?”

Referring to the groundskeeper as a “spooky old man” seemed as equally incongruous as calling the old Weasley home a “burrow”. The man at the door looked neither particularly old (seventy, maybe, but with an athletic build that lent him a youthful air) nor even mildly “spooky”. In fact he had the sort of military bearing John found immediately comforting. Unconsciously he stood a little straighter, his expression shifting into one of readiness and respect.

John shook Frankland’s hand. “We were hoping for a tour, actually, sir. I’m John Watson, and this is my colleague Sherlock Holmes.”

“Watson? Ah, you write for the papers! Love the column. And Holmes, Merlin me, I should’ve known it. You’re notorious aren’t you? Oh, but I’m afraid we’re closed for the holiday, boys,” Frankland said pleasantly, giving them each an appraising look. “But heavens, you two must’ve come from Hogwarts, hmm? Well, that’s quite a trip, and I’d hate to disappoint. My daughter and I were just settling down for some supper…but perhaps you could come round tomorrow morning? Just the two of you, though, don’t want the whole village thinking we’re open for business,” he chuckled.

John shot him a genuine smile. “That’s very kind of you, sir.”

“Sure, sure.” Frankland smiled at them. “You’re not here on a case, are you? Can’t imagine why you would be. Unless it’s all this business about the Hound.”

Sherlock perked up. “You don’t sound terribly convinced.”

“Convinced, Merlin no. I’ve known Henry since he was a wee lad – worked with his dad, didn’t I? Henry’s always had quite the imagination.” Frankland smiled sadly. “Even so, if anyone could find out what really happened to Mr. Knight, it would be you, Mr. Holmes. I hope you do. Mr. Knight was a good man.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, with a slight bow. “And now John and I have our own supper to attend to. Good night, Mr. Frankland.”

“Good night, boys! And we’ll see you again in the morning.”

\---

Sherlock was grinning on the walk back. “What’s that look for?” John asked, prompting the younger boy to shrug and turn up his collar. “Oh, don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” Sherlock sniffed, though his eyes were still bright.

“All mysterious and cool and secretive. Have we got a lead, or not?”

Sherlock’s smile was almost hidden inside his coat. “What do I always say, John?”

“Facts first,” John groaned, scrubbing his hand down his face. “Fine, be that way. Here’s a fact for you: I’m starved. Can we really eat now?”

“Why not?” Sherlock said airily. “The sun doesn’t set for another hour, at least.”


End file.
